10. Winnie

CHAPTER TEN

WINNIE

Harudha: Winnie, I’m texting because you missed your appointment yesterday, which isn’t like you. You can call the office and reschedule if you still want to continue with our sessions. I know you’re still having the nightmares but I think we’re making real progress.

Also, when you reorganised my desk, do you happen to remember where you put my stapler? I can’t find it anywhere.

I ’m walking through a maze. This isn’t a fun corn hedge maze or the minotaur’s prison, but a maze of towering stacks of paper, books, clothing, and toys, unopened boxes from Amazon and rusting kettles, stacked so high that I can’t climb over them. I have to go through.

I’m searching for my school rucksack. It’s bright red with characters from Hotel Transylvania. I love that rucksack, and I’m worried that it’s been swallowed by the maze, that I’ll never see it again and I’ll have to carry my things to school in a hessian sack.

I turn myself sideways to move through a narrow gap.

“Mom!” I call out. “Mom, I have to leave for school. Where’s my rucksack?”

“It’s in the kitchen, of course.” She sounds defensive, as if I were blaming her for my bag going missing. “I made you lunch. Your favourite – peanut butter and honey sandwiches.”

I haven’t been able to eat peanut butter since I was seven and I opened the jar to find a rat inside. But Mum always forgets. Sometimes when she looks at me, it’s like she doesn’t see me. She still sees a baby girl in my dad’s arms.

I twist and turn through the tunnels. Papers rain down on my head. The floor sways and buckles beneath me, warped from water damage and the squashed, rotting piles of newspaper that cover it. Things move in the piles around me, the scurrying sounds growing closer. I swallow down my fear and press on.

I get down on my knees to crawl through a tunnel between two old washing machines. I put my hands into the newspapers and they get covered in brown, sticky sludge. I emerge in the kitchen – or, what might’ve once been a kitchen. The counters are covered in boxes of food that wobble and crunch as the rodents inside them chew their way through. There’s a blackened sludge in the sink, and the refrigerator, cupboards, and bright yellow kitchen table are buried under piles of stuff. I spy my rucksack on top of a stack of National Geographic magazines that Mum saves for me because they have articles about archaeology. My Elsa lunchbox is sitting on top. I open the bag to shove it inside…

…and scream.

Huge black bugs with beady eyes and long scratchy legs pour out. They crawl up my arm, their tiny legs scratching my skin as they swarm over me. More bugs crawl out of my bag. They’re in my hair, my ears, burrowing into my nose. I cover my eyes, zip my mouth shut, and swallow my screams as I curl into a ball on the damp floor. There’s nothing I can do as they start to bite…

I wake, sweat-drenched and scratching, my skin covered in thousands of tiny, invisible bugs. Mirabelle yowls in protest as I throw myself out of bed, flick the light on, and practice the deep breathing my therapist taught me as I check my phone. 4:32 AM.

“Meeerw?” Mirabelle regards me from the windowsill.

“Don’t mind me, kitty. I’m going crazy. I’m sorry for tossing you out of bed.”

I’ve had these nightmares ever since I was eighteen. I had the first one the day I moved out of Mum’s house. My therapist, Harudha, says they’re a way for my brain to process the trauma now that I’m in a safe place, away from the piles. I thought I had them under control, but as we got closer to the wedding, they came back. I haven’t slept through the night for months.

They’re always the same – I’m in a monstrous, dream-version of my mother’s house, trying to find something, trying to escape, or trying to save my mother from a fire, or giant bugs, or giant rats. The giant rat dreams are the worst.

I rub my eyes. I don’t remember coming up to bed. The last thing I recall, I was sipping hot chocolate and talking with Alaric, and then…

I glance down at myself. I’m wearing the same clothes I had on when I arrived. My mouth tastes of roast beef and chocolate.

Horror dawns on me.

I fell asleep in front of the fire.

Someone carried me up here.

Lord Valerian wouldn’t have done it. Surely not. He would get Reginald to carry me. Fancypants lords like him don’t lift damsels in distress up narrow staircases…

Except that Lord Valerian has already rescued me once before…with his lips.

His surprisingly soft, cool, kissable lips…

Argh!

The breathing exercises aren’t helping. My skin itches and now my lips are tingling. Tiny bug legs crawl up my nose, squirm in my ears, and creep over my pyjamas. I tear off my clothes and hurry into the shower. Judging by the candles used in some of the downstairs rooms, I wasn’t even certain if I’d have running water and electricity, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find a modern bathroom with a black-and-gold tiled shower. I strip down and stand under the three jets, allowing the hot water to sluice off the embarrassment of last night and the horrible dream.

I scrub my skin until it’s red and raw. I put on my fresh, clean pyjamas. Then I pull off the sheets, throw them outside the door, and replace them with fresh ones I find in a blanket box at the end of the bed.

Under the sink in the bathroom are some cleaning supplies. Mirabelle cleans between her toes and watches me scrub the floor, the bed frame, and every surface in the room. By the time I’m done, my eyes sting from the chemicals and I need to take another shower, but at least the bugs have stopped crawling over me.

I climb back into bed, exhausted but knowing that my eyes won’t close now. Mirabelle settles into a furry ball against my hip. I pick up one of the romance novels in the stack Mina sold me.

I fall into a world of brooding, epically-schlonged vampires and read until sunlight pours through my windows. Mirabelle’s back rises and falls as she sleeps. I try not to be jealous of the cat.

I fail.

I finish one book and get five chapters into another before hunger drives me from bed. I throw off the covers again, forgetting about my little furry bedmate.

“Meorrw!” Mirabelle glares at me with indignation as she clings to the blanket for dear life.

“Sorry, sorry!”

I glance at the clock. Nearly lunchtime. Still too early for Alaric’s nocturnal schedule, but my body clock isn’t wired to sleep all day, especially when there’s organising to do.

I pull on one of my favourite organising outfits – a burnt orange romper with flared wide-legged pants, and a slouchy pinstriped men’s jacket I wear with the sleeves rolled up. I grab the candelabra Reginald left for me and light the candles. I’m about to descend the winding staircase when an idea hits me. I run into the room and swipe on some lipstick and mascara.

I want to make a good impression on my client. That’s all.

I pad down the crooked stairs, gripping the candelabra in one hand and pressing my other palm into the wall. Mirabelle winds around my feet, meowing loudly about how she’s a poor, starving orphan who hasn’t been given so much as a morsel of gruel.

I reach the bottom of the staircase without falling and breaking my neck. I perform a small celebratory dance on the landing while Mirabelle pretends she doesn’t know me.

Every creaking floorboard and groaning door echoes through the empty, silent castle.

I allow the cat to lead me downstairs, past the rooms we’re cleaning, past the dining room with its padlocked doors, to the kitchen – a large, rough-stone room near the rear of the house.

“Reginald?” I call out. “Anyone?”

Mirabelle leaps onto the kitchen table, bats off a mesh fly cover with her paw, and drags a wedge of roast beef from a plate. The table is laden with food: a platter of cold meats and slices of cheese, fresh fruit, hard-boiled eggs, a selection of jams and fresh honeycomb, a loaf of sourdough, and another basket of delicious pasties.

A note is taped to the top of the loaf.

Dear Ms. Preston

I figured you’d be up before Lord Valerian, so I’ve left out some breakfast things that you may enjoy. Please help yourself to anything you like in the larder or buttery. There is a coffee machine on the counter opposite, and tea in the containers beside the stove.

Lord Valerian is not to be disturbed until the evening, when he will be ready to begin your work. You may not see me today, as I have chores to do around the estate. Use the call bell if you need anything.

Yours, Reginald

My stomach growls.

How long has Reginald been awake to get all of this done?

I have so many questions.

But first, coffee.

I feed Mirabelle another chunk of beef, shove a handful of fresh strawberries in my mouth, and set about making a giant cup of black coffee. Alaric may enjoy his medieval trappings, but I’m thankful that his coffee machine is modern and expensive and runs on glorious electricity and not steam power or five guinea pigs on a treadmill.

I sip my coffee as I circle the table, picking at all the delicious treats on offer.

I cut a slice of sourdough and slather it with honey, but realise too late that Reginald has forgotten to leave me a plate. I glance around the kitchen, wondering where they might keep the crockery. I slide open a couple of drawers, but they’re filled with what look like medieval torture devices but I suspect are the tools of a discerning sous chef.

At least, I hope that’s what they are. One cannot be certain of anything at Black Crag Castle.

I take a bite out of my bread as I wander through a doorway at the end of the kitchen into the scullery. I pull up short.

Odd.

I expect to see shelves stuffed with dry foods, baskets filled with produce and plaits of garlic drying from a ceiling rack. Instead, the scullery shelves are practically bare – only a handful of open boxes and a container of honeycomb in the corner providing any indication that food is stored here at all.

How does Reginald conjure a delicious breakfast spread when the cupboards are bare? I open a few drawers, still searching for a plate, but they’re all empty.

This huge kitchen is designed for a master chef, but there’s hardly any food. There has to be an explanation. Maybe it’s shopping day? Perhaps that’s one of the chores Reginald was referring to in his note.

On the back wall of the scullery I spy a narrow door hidden in the wood panels.

Ah, I bet that’s a cupboard for crockery and mugs and stuff. When I was in the Duke of Harrington’s summer house, he had a whole room for his scarf collection. Rich people have more rooms than sense.

I tug open the door and fumble on the wall for a light. I flick it on…

…and gasp.

Instead of the dark cupboard I expect, I’m standing in an impossibly long room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Rows of wine bottles nestle in wrought-iron frames along each wall.

There must be thousands of bottles in here.

I take a tentative step into the room, admiring the bright labels and immaculate rows. I suspect I’ve stumbled upon another of Alaric’s ‘distractions.’ From the way he swirled his wine last night, I have him pegged as a wine guy.

Patrick was a wine guy, too. He swilled and snorted and sniffed every glass someone handed to him, and loved to impress people with his knowledge of crop projections and obscure New Zealand vineyards. People thought he was brilliant but honestly, it all seemed a little unhygienic to me. He would flip out to see this collection. I bet these bottles are all old and expensive.

No, I’m not thinking about Patrick, or the fact that since he dumped me I’ve become a ‘wine girl’ – as in, drowning my sorrows with a ￡9.99 bottle of plonk more nights than not, just so I can get a full night’s sleep.

I’m drawn to a rack of bottles in the corner beside the door. They’re all red wines, and each one is nestled within what appears to be a temperature-controlled sleeve. The gaps in the rack indicate that someone has been enjoying these wines. I remember the glass of red dangling from Alaric’s long fingers yesterday evening, and I wet my lips for reasons that I don’t want to think about.

I’m curious about him. That’s all this is. I want to get inside that brooding head of his. It’s interesting that this room is so meticulously organised, given the rest of the house. Perhaps that’s Reginald’s influence…

I step towards the shelf and draw one of the bottles from its protective sleeve. A light on the sleeve blinks red. I peer down at the bottle. The label is like nothing I’ve ever seen before – it’s written in what appears to be French, and covered in stamps and wax seals and maker’s marks. It looks far older than anything in Patrick’s collection.

I pull out another bottle, expecting to see a similar old style, but this label is modern – a dark garden of blood-red roses on a black background. It’s also written in a language I don’t recognise, and none of the markings make sense for what little I know about wine?—

“Ms. Preston.”

I whirl around, shocked by the harshness of the voice.

Reginald whips the bottle from my fingers before I drop it.

“Reginald, you startled me. I was looking for a plate?—”

“I don’t think you should be in here.” Reginald slides the bottle back into its sleeve and settles it lovingly into its cradle. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but some of these bottles are quite old, and my lord is very particular about his wine. I’ll show you where we keep the crockery. Will you be starting work shortly, or do you wish to return to bed until Lord Valerian rises?”

As Reginald talks, he herds me towards the door, his gaze flicking back to the red wine bottles, eyes narrowing in concern. I know I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t understand what it is.

“I can’t sleep anymore. I’ll need more than a day to adjust to Lord Valerian’s nocturnal schedule,” I babble. In the kitchen, Reginald shows me a drawer concealed beneath the chunky kitchen table that holds delicate china. “I’m glad you found me. I need to order some shelves and containers. If you can get me set up on the castle wifi, I’ll do that and then I’ll get started in the ballroom. Lord Valerian can join me when he wakes up.”

“Very well, Ms. Preston. I shall leave you to your breakfast. The castle network is named Lan Helsing, and password ‘cantstakeme’, all one word.” He pauses when he sees my expression. “Lord Valerian’s humour. He was most aggrieved at having to install the internet, but now he cannot live without it since he discovered he can order art supplies without having to set foot in a store.”

I can’t help but smile. “I believe it.”

“Write me a list and I’ll order anything you require.” Reginald’s eyes flicker over me. “And perhaps when you see Lord Valerian this evening, don’t mention that you were in the cellar.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

Reginald hurries away. I load my plate with food, but as I sit down to eat it, I find that I’ve lost my appetite. I peer over my shoulder at the scullery and the hidden door to the wine cellar.

Did I just stumble on a secret of Black Crag Castle that I’m not supposed to know?